To Do And Die
by Sakura Tsukikage
Summary: The first day of the Battle of the Somme was the bloodiest day in the history of the British Armed Forces. Canada faces the reality of what he's come to do.


A/N: July 1st was the historical anniversary of a lot of things, and even though I wrote a fic to commemorate Canada Day and posted it the day of, I've been wanting to finish the stories I started for the other events commemorated that day. July 1st was also the anniversary of the first day of the Battle of the Somme.

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

**To Do And Die**

Canada bites his lip to keep back a groan as he clumsily knots the handkerchief high around the muscle of his arm. Whenever he touches the wound, it sends blades of pain stabbing down into his fingers and back up into his shoulder, white-hot and blazing under the bone until he has to grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut to keep back the tears starting in them, but it's gone numb the rest of the time, and he can barely curve his fingers. He isn't sure what's wrong (Newfoundland has been battered and torn by shrapnel, though, and he doesn't want to think about how bad it might be, because it can't possibly go deep enough to do permanent damage when he's not even home, right?), but he just hopes it will heal, because there's no time for anything else. German shells may have shredded his upper arm, but he's already done the best he can do for now, pulled out the shrapnel and bandaged it. He can't stop long enough to do anything more, not yet. The battle isn't going well, and—and he has to help England; it's what he came to do.

He looks up at the top of the trench and swallows. _For England_, he thinks. _For France_—and they're his _family_, he can't just let Germany keep doing this to them, he _won't_. (Part of him, deep inside and a little twisted, a little bitter, and yes, more than a little hurt, thinks wretchedly, _Alfred should be here, how can he not be here, aren't they his family too?_ But he banishes the thought because he's _not_ here, and that's all there is to it).

Canada picks up his gun and goes up over the top.

When the mine under Hawthorn Ridge goes, Canada can see the smoke, feel as well as see the earth billowing up and collapsing back in on itself, and he wipes his forehead and swallows hard and just hopes the explosion means something good for them, because he really can't tell anymore. He knows England's over there (hoping to take that territory—is that right? He hates this war, hates the trenches, hates how it seems like nothing ever changes and the way that makes it so difficult to keep it all straight)—and so he worries, because this battle already hasn't been going well for England at all, and he's—he's _worried_. (But England has to be all right, because he just . . . _is_, he's so experienced at this, with all of this, with war, and he's so much older and stronger and he always knows what he's doing—except with Alfred, but that was different—and he'd been so sure of himself, of _them_, before they'd started here.) And things haven't been going as badly for France, but Canada still worries, because that's the way this war _is_, it gets inside you and stays there and grinds away until you're thin and worn and there's nothing else for you but the pounding of the guns and the scent of smoke and blood and the cloying stench of death and there's no color anymore, no color anywhere, and so even if things are going well France might not be all right.

_That's enough of that_, he tells himself a moment later. _Worrying isn't what you came here to do_. He came here to help, and so he's going to do that instead.

He remembers what he thought when he saw the mine go off, though, as he's limping back when it's all over (did they win or lose? He isn't sure, and he isn't sure if they even know, if anyone does), and a British officer—and he's terribly young, with brown floppy hair and freckles and he looks probably no older than Canada but that must mean he's much, much younger, really—comes running up and says, breathlessly, "Sir! It's Lord—General, I mean to say—Arthur, Arthur Kirkland, Captain Williams, sir," and Canada feels his heart freezing in his chest, colder than his winters have ever been.

"Where?" he says, already feeling the frantic terror starting in his belly, bubbling up within him and spilling through his body, and follows where the man—one of England's—leads him, his eyes dwelling on the ruined earth and dead eyes and slumped shoulders of the men they pass, and these—these are the lucky ones. Because when they get to the infirmaries it's worse, so much worse, and agonized moans not strong enough to be screams get into Canada's head and lodge in his gut and he knows he'll remember that sound forever like he remembers the horror of the gas at Ypres (choking, burning, fumbling to press cloth over his mouth and nose, like nothing he's ever felt before). By the time they get to where the officer is leading him his stomach is roiling and sick and he can hardly breathe for it all, is taking in short, wavering, hitching breaths through his nose because his lips are pressed together so tightly.

England is lying on a stretcher, his uniform open over his chest, the plain khaki-gray cloth stained and torn and ruddy with blood. He looks small, is Canada's first thought, and it terrifies him, and then he's on his knees by England's side, dropping his gun and his helmet and his gear, but he doesn't quite dare to touch him, because England's skin is so pale it's almost translucent, like fine china, the porcelain of his best tea set, smudged all over with dirt and blood and . . . other things, and for a second Canada doesn't think he's breathing at all until he notices the slight movement of the bandages wrapped messily around England's chest. There's a cut down across his nose, across his forehead, still oozing blood across his face, and his lips are cracked and dry and bleeding and crusted with dirt and tinged a little with blue under all of it.

"They found him," the officer is saying frantically, and Canada looks up to see tears sliding down the young man's face through the grime, "in the crater left by the Hawthorn mine. The lads said he wouldn't give up on holding it, until the last, and then no one knew where he had gone—" The boy sniffs, and rubs at his nose, and says, thickly, "shouldn't he be back in Whitehall, sir, he's not—this isn't his—"

Canada shakes his head and turns back to England, and the boy says, "Yes, I see, of course, I—of course he'd want to be here, dreadfully silly of me, really."

"It's all right," Canada finally manages to say, the words gone as numb as his arm. Somehow, it seems, this boy knows who England really is. "Could you do something for me, please?"

"Yes, rather," the young man says quickly, "I mean to say, anything, sir!"

"See if you can get us some water, any sort, but clean, and preferably hot," Canada says, and the boy salutes and stammers an assent and runs off.

He needs to get England cleaned up, Canada thinks mournfully, and reaches out to touch his fingers, gently, to England's face, feeling for fever the way England had used to when Canada and America were still both so small, but England's skin is chill and a little clammy, and he makes a soft, snuffling sort of snorting breath in his nose when Canada touches him but doesn't wake. Canada feels for the pulse at his neck, his fingers brushing down against skin coated in filth and grime and a sad, stained, drooping collar that that morning had been gleaming white and stiff with starch. It's a comfort to feel the even throbbing beneath his fingers, and he rests his hand there, curling his fingers inward against England's skin while his other hand pats down England's chest, feeling for his injuries.

He knows he's found them when England twitches and breathes more heavily, and Canada winces, because no wonder England's so cold and still, his right side is a bloody mess all the way down his body, and his chest is streaked with violent bruising, on his side so dark it's almost black. Canada has no doubt it's that bad all up and down his shoulder and ribs and flank and wishes he could do something, but even though there a couple gaping wounds still sluggishly oozing blood from under the bandages, it's not—not that bad, really, for one of them, no matter how cold England is, or still.

He just wishes he could believe that.

He reaches down and clasps his hand around England's still one and wishes, so deeply he can't catch his breath for it, that he would wake up to look past and talk over and ignore Canada all over again. England's hand is muddy under his, and the knuckles are swollen. He clutches that limp hand close to him.

How badly must the battle have gone, to leave England like this?

The young officer returns—a second later, an hour, Canada isn't sure, but he has hot water, a whole pot full of it and Canada smiles up at him and says, "Well done," and the young man flushes up a little.

"I'm—I'm attached to the War Office," he says, nonsensically, and Canada thinks, equally nonsensically, _that explains a great deal_.

"Could you make—" Canada says then, hesitantly, because surely it's too much to ask, "could you make a cup of tea from that, before I . . . um, muddy—muddy it up?"

The young man looks down at England and swallows hard and says, "Yes, sir, certainly I could, sir."

So Canada waits again, for that, tearing strips off his own undershirt because he can see that the orderlies are all busy, and then, finally, he dips the rags in the water and begins to carefully bathe the battlefield from England's face. He's especially careful along that raw, tender gash across his features, not deep at all but surely painful, and as he runs the cloth gingerly, as gently as he can, between England's lips, to sponge away the dirt crusted there. When they're mostly clean, he sets about reaching for his own canteen—there's not much water left, but any will do for a start—and when he looks back, England's eyes are canted open, unevenly because one of them is swelling, and heavily, like he can barely hold up his eyelids, but open.

"E-E-England!" Canada stammers, but he manages not to drop his canteen, and England sighs, so tiredly and says, like he can't quite believe it, his voice just a husky, smoke-roughened wisp, "C-Canada . . . ? You're . . . still here . . . ."

And Canada blinks, surprised. "Where else would I be?" he asks.

England blinks again, slowly, and then his eyes focus and he's looking at him critically, his brow furrowed up like it's costing him a lot of effort and it hurts to think. "Look . . . ing . . . well," he rasps out, like he's proud and relieved all at once, and Canada flushes a little and looks down, but not before he sees England's eyes flick to his shoulder and hears him sigh again. "S-sorry awfully," England mumbles, and his eyes slide away.

"Eh?" Canada says. "About what?"

"You're hurt . . ." England whispers, and his voice is roughened and thick from more than the smoke this time, and trembles in the middle of the words. "Sorry, Canada . . . this mess, my fault . . . . Should've . . ." a breath ". . . should've handled it . . . better, should've . . . made them, those . . . old men, see . . . ."

Oh, _England_, Canada thinks, and before he can be afraid, before he can think about how he shouldn't be so foolish and affectionate, and that England wouldn't want him to break the formal distance that's always been part of their relationship, and that England'd rather have America here anyway because it wouldn't mean as much just coming from Canada, or anything, he leans down and presses his lips to England's forehead.

England lifts his hand and pats Canada's good arm, and Canada pulls back, pushing little strands of hair out of England's face, and closes his hand over England's on his arm. "You'll be all right," he says, making an effort to make his words sound cheerful. "See, look—" and he gestures at the young officer, who turns bright pink over his nose and cheeks.

He says, "It's just a cup of tea—sir—my . . . er, my lord—sir—"

And England's breath catches and his eyes widen. Between them, they get England sitting up, mostly leaning on Canada, and he sips the tea from a battered tin army cup and says, gruffly, to the young officer, "Good man," who looks delighted at the faint praise, as delighted as if England had granted him a dukedom (and Canada isn't even sure if England is the one who does that kind of thing, or if it's more of a delegated job).

After England finishes the tea, he turns his head to lay it in the hollow of Canada's good shoulder, on top of Canada's bulky uniform jacket, just for a moment, and he pats roughly at Canada's side, his fingers swiping clumsy and warm against Canada's ribs, and says, "Thank you, Matthew."

"F-for what?" Canada stammers.

"You're such a good boy," England says, and straightens up again. "Jolly good fellow, really." He reaches up to brush Canada's cheek with his fingers, rubbing his thumb quick and light against Canada's jaw, and says, "Fantastic in a tight spot, and all that."

Canada feels his eyes fill, and he sniffs a little, going warm all over, down to his bones, and he hasn't been warm, really warm, like that for a long time. "R-really?" he whispers, because there's no doubt, right now, that England is looking at _him_ and seeing _him_. Not France, and not America.

And England blushes, and looks down, and starts to gripe and grumble, and Canada knows that means it's true, he really meant it.

He sets his jaw and swears to himself right then and there that he's going to be strong in this war, he's going to prove how strong he can be. So he can protect England (and he'll never be hurt this badly again, not while Canada's here and can help it). So he can protect his family.

If he can protect them, if he can _save_ them, nothing else matters.

Finis.

1. The first day on the Somme was July 1st, 1916, the opening day of the **Battle of Albert**, which was the first phase of the British and French offensive that became known as the Battle of the Somme. The middle day of the middle year of the First World War, it is remembered as the bloodiest day in the history of the British Army 57,470 men became casualties of which 19,240 were killed or died of wounds. The Somme was to be the first major offensive mounted by the British Expeditionary Force. Included were many of the famous Pals battalions that had formed in response to Lord Kitchener's call for volunteers in August 1914. Heavy losses amongst these battalions led to a concentration of casualty notices in the communities from which they were formed.

2. The Battle of Albert actually involved far fewer Canadian troops than most of the battles up to that point, in which a large percentage of the British force had been made up of Canadians, but I feel like Canada's the type to just sort of do his thing stoically until someone he cares about gets hurt, in a way, which is why I chose to portray it this way.

3. The Hawthorn Ridge Redoubt was a German front-line fortification that was the scene of a number of costly attacks by the British infantry during the Battle of the Somme in 1916. It was also the site of one of the most famous pieces of film footage of World War I when the Hawthorn Ridge mine was detonated beneath it. Once the debris subsided, two platoons of the 2nd Battalion, Royal Fusiliers (86th Brigade, 29th Division) were sent forward to occupy the crater. However, the German defenders succeeded in holding the eastern lip of the crater. The early detonation alerted all Germans in the vicinity that the long-expected attack was about to occur, and they were ready for them. By the time the infantry went over at 7:30 am, the German machine guns were sweeping no man's land and artillery fire was falling on the British trenches. The attack on Hawthorn Ridge redoubt, and on the entire VIII Corps front, ended in failure. By 8:30 am, the only "gain" by the 29th Division was a single company clinging to the western lip of the crater but by the end of the day this too was lost. (In this fic, England was fighting as part of the 2nd Battalion Royal Fusiliers.) The whole thing was another World War I planning fail, in which the people in charge had no idea how to fight a modern war, or any idea of the full import of their orders.

4. The 1st Newfoundland Regiment suffered greater than 90% casualties on July 1st, 1916.

5. "Going over the top" described the action of climbing out of a trench to advance. Attacks starting from trenches required the infantry to climb over the top before they could cross no man's land to attack the enemy trenches. 'Going over the top' was an unpopular task; soldiers awaited three blows on a whistle to proceed. One soldier commented 'it felt like such a long time waiting to go over the top that many of us expected the war to be over by the time we had climbed on to 'no man's land'. This was used repeatedly during the Great War. (I got this from Wikipedia. In fact, I just stole most of these explanations from Wikipedia, because it was so complicated I didn't feel up to typing up all of it myself.)

6. Unlike their British comrades, the French divisions enjoyed complete success on the first day, even surpassing their objectives in places south of the Somme River. The French possessed overwhelming superiority in artillery with 84 heavy batteries to Germany's eight on this sector.

7. As night fell — and there were only six hours of darkness in July — many survivors began to make their way back to the British trenches and stretcher-bearers went out in search of the wounded. Some bearers continued to operate the following day, despite the risks. Some of the wounded survived for up to a week in no man's land before being rescued.

8. The British Army's hospital system failed badly on 1 July. Prior to the battle General Rawlinson, preparing for the worst, had requested 18 ambulance trains to be provided to evacuate the wounded throughout the day. He was assured by the Quartermaster General, R.C. Maxwell, that the needs of the Fourth Army would be met. However, only three trains stood by during the day and these departed, partly filled, before the bulk of the wounded had been brought to the Casualty Clearing Stations, which only had collective capacity for 9,500 cases. Consequently many wounded were left untended in the open. It was not until the 4th of July that the Fourth Army's medical services were brought under control. Such was the strain on the system that some of the wounded reached hospitals in England still wearing their original field dressings.

9. Due to the primitive battlefield communications, the extent of the catastrophe that befell the British Army on 1 July was not immediately known to the generals. At 7.30pm Rawlinson figured his casualties at 16,000. The figure rose to 40,000 by the 3rd of July and the final tally of 60,000 was not determined until the 6th of July (though exact figures were not reached for some time).

10. The Battle of the Somme claimed 24,029 Canadian casualties. But it also gave Canadian units the reputation of a formidable assault force. As Prime Minister Lloyd George wrote, "The Canadians played a part of such distinction that thenceforward they were marked out as shock troops; for the remainder of the war they were brought along to head the assault in one great battle after another. Whenever the Germans found the Canadian Corps coming into the line they prepared for the worst." The Canadians contributed greatly to the British war effort in WWI, especially during the last offensives of the war, playing such an important role that in France the last one hundred days of the Allied offensive are called "Canada's Hundred Days."

11. The title comes from "The Charge of the Light Brigade," by Alfred Lord Tennyson. The original line is "Thers not to reason why, theirs but to do and die."


End file.
